


2020 FFXIVWrite Daily Collection

by JanuaryBlue



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amaurot (Final Fantasy XIV), Amaurotines (Final Fantasy XIV), Angst, Bondage, Choking, Cock Rings, Collars, Crafter Quests, Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Gen, Leashes, Light Dom/sub, Masochism, Multi, Multi-Classed Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Other, Petplay, Semi-public sex acts, Sex Toys, Useless Lesbians, tags will be added as chapters are posted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:53:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 31
Words: 12,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26353741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JanuaryBlue/pseuds/JanuaryBlue
Summary: For the 2020 FFXIVWrite!Expect almost exclusively Ascians and reader inserts, but I'm gonna try not to limit myself by tying these all together with a unifying theme. Some of these will be VERY short as I struggle with the daily nature of these prompts, and the deadlines, but that's all a part of the fun~Spoilers will be marked on a CHAPTER BY CHAPTER basis in the index (the first chapter), so if you're not through with 5.3 PLEASE CHECK THERE. I might not do a great job of updating the tags on the fic itself but I'll try to update the index every time a chapter is posted with kinks/themes/etc. so if you're looking for a certain think you can easily find it :)
Relationships: Altima/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Brithael Spade/Warrior of Light, Emmerololth/Reader, Emmerololth/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Fandaniel/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Hythlodaeus/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Igeyorhm/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Lahabrea/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Nabriales/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV), Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Reader, Solus zos Galvus | Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light
Comments: 5
Kudos: 65
Collections: Final Fantasy Write Prompt Challenge 2020





	1. Index

**Index of Chapters**

1\. Index

You are here!

No spoilers :)

2\. Crux

Modern AU F!Emet-Selch/Reader, Semi-public sex acts

Spoilers for 5.0

3\. Sway

F!Emet-Selch/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for early 5.0

4\. Muster

Emmerololth/Reader, Sex toys, restraints

No spoilers

5\. Clinch

Emet/WoL!Reader, collaring, dom/sub, petplay (very light), suggestions of painplay (bruises)

No spoilers

6\. Matter of Fact

Gen, implied Lahabrea/WoL!Reader, Emet-Selch/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.3 and the Tales from the Shadows short story "Ere Our Curtain Falls"

7\. Bonus day - You Pick

Altima/Reader, suggestive but not explicit

Spoilers for 5.0

8\. Nonagenarian

Emet/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.0

9\. Clamour

Gen, implied Ardbert/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.2, spoilers hinted for 5.3

10\. Lush

Emet/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.0 (light)

11\. Avail

Lahabera/WoL but it's a haiku

Very very vague spoilers for 5.0+ if you're looking

12\. Ultracrepidarian

Emet/Omni class!WoL, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.0

13\. Tooth and Nail

Igeyorhm/WoL!Reader, mature but not explicit

No spoilers

14\. You Pick II

Altima/WoL!Reader, Mitron/Loghrif, mature/suggestive but not explicit, discussions of sex pollen

No spoilers

15\. Part

Hythlodaeus/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.0

16\. Ache

Gen-ish, implied Hythlodaeus/WoL!Reader, perhaps Ardbert/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.2

17\. Lucubration

Lahabrea/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

No spoilers

18\. Fade

Gen-ish, implied Emet-Selch/WoL, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.3

19\. Panglossian

F!Emet-Selch/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.0

20\. Where the heart is

Gen, implied Elidibus/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.3

21\. You Pick III

Elidibus/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.3

22\. Foibles

Nabriales/Reader, explicit, dom/sub dynamics, collar and leash, choking, oral sex, masochism (mentions of striking/slapping etc.), cock ring, orgasm denial

Spoilers for 5.0 (vague)

23\. Argy-bargy

Birthael/WoL!Reader, no explicit content, drinking/drunk characters (Birthael is the Blacksmith Guildmaster)

Spoilers for 5.0

24\. Shuffle

Fandaniel/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.3

25\. Beam

Nabriales/WoL!Reader, explicit content, painplay (whipping/flogging), dom/sub, etc. Continuation of "Foibles"

No spoilers

26\. Wish

Hythlodaeus/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.3

27\. When Pigs Fly

Emet/WoL!Reader, suggestive but no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.0

28\. You Pick III

Emet/Reader, light Hythlodaeus/Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.3

29\. Irenic

Gen, suggestions of Emet/WoL!Reader, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.0

30\. Paternal

Emet/Reader, no explicit content, suggestions of daddy kink

Spoilers for 5.0

31\. Splinter

Gen, Elidibus-centric, no explicit content

Spoilers for 5.3


	2. Crux

“The wine selection is excellent – as is the menu. A fine choice of restaurant for the evening, Femet-Selch.” The man in white – you believe she’d called him ‘Elidibus’ – muses over a heavy, gilded menu alongside his dark-dressed coworker, a brooding looking man who nonetheless nods in agreement.

“You are most welcome for the invitation,” The smooth, carefree tones of Femet’s particular voice sound about the dinner table – in a restaurant this fine, with a private booth _of course_ for the likes of them, her voice carries well. “I cannot imagine you could possibly have had anything better to do, in any case.”

There’s a light scoff from Lahabrea; Elidibus remains silent, the slightest twitch in his brow as he gazes over the menu. It’s hardly a distraction from the fingers that dance at the crux between your thighs – beneath the solid wood of the table she is bold, confident, assertive, and above it she is much the same.

You’d agreed to have dinner with her colleagues. You had _not_ agreed to be fondled during it – a fact she’s well aware of. Golden eyes linger on your expression, fingertips ever light and ready to withdraw at the slightest indication of discomfort. She’s watching, waiting, ever vigilant for the safeword or gesture that you have absolutely no intention of using.

“It’s good to finally meet you,” You say; for your part, you remain remarkably even-toned while her fingers poke and prod between your legs, utterly _sinful_ and unwelcome notes of delight that tickle at you while you mean to make conversation. “She’d told me much about you.”

She reaches her other arm to settle a hand on yours as it rests on the table; fingers clasping at your wrist while her thumb strokes your palm. So very solid and _present_ while her well-manicured nails just _play_ at the skirt of your dress – perhaps you should have expected this when she’d playfully snatched away your panties while getting ready, telling you in that _voice_ of hers that you would _not_ be needing _those_ tonight.

Then again, you think, catching the gleam in her eyes as she glances at you and then over the table, with her, who could tell? You had guessed she’d meant to have sex afterwards… and now you’re _know_ she does, but with every drag of her nails over your sex through the barrier of fabric, you become more and more concerned as to _how long_ after.

“Good things all, I am certain.” Elidibus is rather diplomatic; he’s the countenance of an intelligent man – or perhaps it’s just his deep, lilting voice that coaxes you into thinking he is – so he is surely not _certain,_ or if he is, it’s of the opposite case.

“Hardly.” Lahabarea does not even seem to bother with a pretense – just as surly and direct as she had described him to you. “But I suppose her partner cannot possibly imagine that she does as much work as she claims to. Not with how much time she spends away on her constant little liaisons.”

Of the two of you, only you have the decency left to blush for it – Femet merely laughs and leans into you, hand cupping over your sex as she moves, settling between your thighs and pressing in enough to dampen the front of your dress. How fortunate that you’d worn something dark enough that it wouldn’t show.

“Jealous?” She purrs, and you can already see the denial rising up in Lahabrea’s face when she immediately shuts him down, “Well, _I_ suppose I would be, too, with a partner like Igeyorhm. Can’t convince her to take time off for a tryst or two? Not even a quick little thing in a closet, or the office? You could get it over with fast enough, I’m sure.” 

Fine lips contort in a sneer, “She is _convinced_ that her responsibilities outweigh her base desires, and my motivations are much the same. Any further is _personal_ business, and hardly suitable talk for the dinner table.”

Femet only laughs again – across the table, Elidibus is very pointedly perusing the menu and not looking up, uninterested in his coworker’s spat – and brings your hand twined with hers up to her lips, close enough to kiss. Her lipstick leaves a dark mark on your wrist. “Base desires – isn’t that what dinner tables are _for,_ dear speaker?”

For a moment you’re actually interested in his response; Lahabrea appears to take the quip to heart, considering, you watch those light eyes flash and narrow in comprehension as he opens his mouth to retort –

And you don’t hear it very clearly, past the way her palm presses into your sex, a yearning pressure that has you leaning into it without thinking, a dam of lust swirling to crest at her hands while her voice crashes into your ears.

“Well, _I’ve_ received no complaints. Isn’t that right, dear?” Your Femet is a wicked creature, teasing, delighting in your torment, and you make her pay for it, as she well knows – but not here, and not now, and she knows _that,_ too.

It’s hard to speak with your heart in your throat, the high in your veins racing through you, trickling, as she squeezes over you, your clit pressed so _tightly_ in your folds, but it’s not enough, not _enough,_ the sensation is gone too soon and you need more, harder, stronger. You shift in your seat and you don’t miss how she smiles, a flicker you catch from the corner of your eye past the heat in your cheeks.

“Not yet,” You manage, averting your eyes from anyone at the table who might be looking. “The night is still young.”

She flicks a finger _in,_ pressing, and you have to stop yourself from jerking, your hand instinctively clasping in hers, other arm going flat on the table as your thighs tense in aching want.

“Shall we order now, then.” Elidibus’s voice cuts through the tension with his even-handed proposal, utterly unaffected.

Between your legs, a twitch. She _can’t_ touch your bare sex, after all, not with the dress in the way; going so far past your knees, it’d be nigh impossible to lift up enough to allow her access. There’s a mischevous, unmistakable tilt to the corner of her beautiful, dark, glossy lips that suggests she may be up to the challenge and your clit _pulses_ at the thought.

And then Lahabrea coughs, and you look up to the open annoyance on his face with your heart nearly bursting from your chest.

“But of course,” Femet drawls, sitting back, bringing her hand back _up_ your groin, allowing her pointed fingernails to scrape and poke at the very crest of your sex.

It’s going to be a _long_ night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Throughout the series, I'm going to write for F!Emet and probably regular Emet. I'll sometimes just call F!Emet "Emet", since Emet-Selch is technically a title. I'll put the note here and maybe repeat it; but in any case, if you see Emet-Selch being referred to as "she", it's because I'm writing about a woman, not because I don't know what gender Emet-Selch is ingame XD


	3. Sway

When you first see her, it takes you a few good moments to take in her outfit – the dress is fine material, fashionable as ever, tasteful golden-edged frills and long folds that sweep elegantly though her skirts. An overcoat, opened at the chest and lined with fur, so very _warm_ looking, her generous breasts tenting the half-coat that ends just before her waist, where a belt draws her skirt to a fine cinch.

But as you raise your eyes you cannot help but see it – draped over her shoulders, wrapped loosely about her neck, its tail coiling down one of her arms in a lazy twist as she offers out her hand in a gesture that _has_ to be more for dramatic effect than actual askance.

“If you should wish it,” she says, tilting her hear to the side, a moment her whole body follows, “I shall even lend you my knowledge and strength. Considerable as they are, they would be nothing but a boon to you…”

It’s then that you notice her eyes are bight gold. To match the gleaming scales of the snake languidly wending its way back up her arm.

Her pretty words will not sway you. Nor will the sway of that serpent on her arm, resting docile as it stares at you with large, nearly luminescent eyes. Its tongue flicks out, not a quick movement but a slow one, tasting the air, waving lazily as it lets it head settle against her collar. For some completely unnamable and utterly absurd reason, you think it’s _smiling_ at you.

“After all,” In parting, the woman who had named herself Emet-Selch meets your eyes, with a crooked smile that has your lips parting before you’ve a single word to say, “I _am_ in the presence of the famed Ascian-Slayer. It would serve me well to mind myself.”

Whatever other words she’d said before had passed in a blur, the replies of your companions and her smooth dismissals that sound like murmurs in the face of her hair – so _soft,_ with a bright, shining sheen over it, as gilded and luscious as everything else about her.

Before the echo of your first step towards her has sounded, she is gone.


	4. Muster

“The true question, of course, is which one you will take the best…” Before her lays an assortment of crystalline toys, some on soft cloths, others on stands; wands with ridges, grooves, bumps or facets – and some that swirled or bulged in delightfully aesthetic ways. She runs her hand idly over the table they rest on, tilting her head to the side in casual consideration. “There are so very many. I know the concepts by heart – if none of these suffice, I should be pleased to produce another on the spot.”

You swallow. Lick your lips. She glances at you with in a flicker of tourmaline, dark skin like mahogany on the sleek glass table. Hair normally tightly bound falling over her shoulder in loose violet waves as she turned, the color as right and vibrant as the crystals before her. 

“The form itself is a simple matter to produce… though no less significant as a part of the experience. Texture is an important factor, though they are all composed of crystal. Hard, solid; a firm and weighty substance to fill and part the flesh…” Her voice is as smooth as ever, with a transparent clarity that carries, as if she were standing right beside you.

The clink of her nails on crystal has you at attention. She draws a finger over one – a curved piece with bulbs along it, evenly spaced, just large enough to make your mouth water and your cunt clench, empty and aching between your legs.

Somehow, it was even worse to be clothed, to have the soft cloth of your robe coating your sweat-dewed body like a towel in a hot shower, every brush of skin against the fabric teasing and unwanted stimulation –

No, the stimulation you want right now is in her hands. In more ways than one, but literally, it’s a bright, swirling green, a longer wand that was swirled at the base, spiraling towards the tip in smooth curves, not unlike a helix. How would that feel as she worked it inside you? Nudged the tapered tip against your entrance and pushed, pushed, until you gave…

“The Vortex, the wind – as soft and the breeze, as cutting as the gale.” Her finger glides over it with effortless elegance as she considers, “It is quite light in the hand. Easy to maneuver and adjust. But oft sharper than I might prefer…”

You sit there, squirming in place, hands tied behind your back, as Emmerololth ponders, settling it back into place as she idly strides to another item in the gathered assortment.

“Levin,” She says, picking up a crystalline phallus of electric violet; you swear you can see sparks at her manicured nails, a pretty teal that grows from the branches of her fingertips, “Is lighter still, but of even stronger presence. Where the gale cuts, the levin _pierces,_ thorough and penetrating, leaving naught in its wake. An unmarked burst of intensity that races through blood and sinew alike.”

The silence in the room seems to build, in that moment; and then, she asks. “Which would you prefer?”

Even if you turn your gaze down, cheeks ablaze, you can feel the arch of her brow, the weight of her gaze,

With all the confidence you can muster you say, “Whichever one you like…” That’s the right answer, right? It’s what she wants you to say.

Emmerololth blinks. Eyes narrowing. You’re ready for her to shove whichever wand she has in her hands _into your mouth_ already, do _anything_ to you, to _touch_ you, you’re so willing and ready, wanting and _aching_ but _of course_ you don’t get what you want.

“You _do_ know the other elements, yes?”

No. No no no no _no no **no Emmerololth PLEASE –**_

Your eyes snap up as your heart drops on the sound of the rustle, of the paper being unfolded and spread out, _“Emm!”_

She ignores you. The cruel and unyielding Holy Queen fixes her gaze upon her prey; the uneducated student, unruly, having refused or forgotten to study. The bedroom becomes an office, the phallus in her hand a pointer. Behind her, a diagram of the elements and their relationships unfolds, her battle plan for the night.

You’re leaking onto your robes. This is a _crime against humanity,_ “Emmerololth _please,_ for the love of – ”

“For one such as you, it should be no trouble at all,” The confident smoothness with which she speaks; her strong but lilting cadence; it does _not_ improve your current situation.

Pleading would be pointless; only one thing would stop her pursuit and that one thing would be a textbook recitation of the elements, their aethereal properties, alignments, balances and strengths against one another and all of the other things that were _definitely_ going through your mind while she flouted her delectable crystal cocks and how they would feel inside you.

“But,” She says, as if in concession, “Being such a basic course, your instruction concerning the elements must have been long ago. It is understandable that you might require a refresher.”

“We were about to have sex!” It’s futile, but you can’t stop yourself. Worst of all, she looks so _beautiful_ like this, so pleased with herself and how she’s captured your attention, gesturing – _still_ with the phallus! – towards the diagram with a light smile.

“We are still about to have sex.” With ease does she dismiss your concern; for a moment you think you catch a lurid look in her eyes, and then she straightens, organizing the diagram into a more simplistic one with a wave of the… wand. “You have not named an element, yet.”

“Sexual frustration.”

A laugh. “Try again.”

“Burning lust.”

“Your grasp on the subject matter approaches completion,” Lifting the wand to her lips and resting it there as if in contemplation, she replies, “But you are not yet there.”

_“Emm!”_


	5. Clinch

With ease does the collar clinch around his neck – with greater ease do you lead him before you, chain leash weighty and cool in your hand, giving it a good enough tug to leave him stumbling into you, helpless with his hands tied behind his back, keeling forward like a fool.

Bruises and shadows look so similar, so fitting, on his pretty face. When you tell him so his eyes get dark and he licks his lips and you know he’s going to say something to make you yank him away, pull the collar hard enough against his neck that its presence consumes his awareness entirely.

You reel him in, unfaltering, deaf to his pleas shaped like spears, setting him between your spread legs and cocking your head. 

He settles on his knees before you, sitting obediently on folded legs for you to look down onto, _and oh, he is beautiful to look down upon, being beneath him suits you, and you tell him so, watch his eyes flash as he pretends to be indignant and not aroused,_ you tell your pet –

“Beg.”


	6. Matter of Fact

It is a perfectly ordinary day in Amaurot, and people are yelling outside the Hall of Rhetoric.

Not yelling, precisely – the good scholars of the Hall would never (excepting a certain incident involving temporal dilation between the Esteemed Lahabrea and the Honorable Nabriales) – but as close to yelling as one comes during the process of debate. Raised voices that skirt the line of disrespectful, demanding attention and concession – each in opposite directions.

“As a matter of fact,” You overhear, while very badly trying not to, but the voice is unfortunately extremely loud, and familiar, “I would go so far as to call your proposition absolutely absurd. A combination of such differing elements – your supposition that the strengths of one might outweigh the other is patently absurd.”

The supposition did not sound so unreasonable, but the source of the vehemence? What two things, when joined, would cause such vehement denial with the mere suggestion that they be combined?

“Lahabrea and Azem would be an absolutely disastrous match! Even worse than your absurd proposal of Azem and Emet-Selch – Emet-Selch, of all people! It is as if you have never interacted with any of them.”

What.

There is no greater horror than this: the voice you hear in response is smooth, calm, with an unmistakable depth and brightness that could come from only one soul.

“And yet I may well interact more with any of the given individuals in a day than you do – a reality of which you cannot be unaware. So what are you aware of, that you believe I am not?” Elidibus asks, a question that leads with subtle implication – a move that forces his opponent to contradict him, or concede a point; his opponent, however, is clearly no novice to debate.

This is. This is the worst conversation you have ever overheard in your life. And you were there when Lahabrea mistook the uninitiated Elidibus for a youngling and tried to give the talk – what exactly led to that series of events, you had never dared to ask, but poor unfortunate Elidibus had been forced to exert his skills of diplomacy and mediation to their absolute fullest, so soon into his term.

“You act as if interpersonal relationships are a scale upon which personal strengths and weaknesses might be weighed – I cannot count the ways in which that metaphor falls short, Elidibus, and not much fewer still the ways in which it draws faulty parallels.”

“Indeed,” Normally it would bring you warmth to hear the familiarity of the smile in his voice, but at the moment you are frozen, horrified, praying that they might not recognize you standing nearby… “That is why I did not draw such a parallel – only mentioned that the Speaker’s less amiable proclivities might soften in the presence of Azem’s natural approachability.”

Less amiable – as tactful as ever. You would have simply outright said abrasive. Approachability was likewise somewhat neutral – could Elidibus think of nothing more positive to say for you…?

“And as I said you’ve no way of knowing – but here!” No. Oh no no no no no. Oh, no. You turn to leave, fruitlessly, feeling two sets of eyes on you. You suppress a groan. “A chance to put your theory to the test. Azem!”

No no. No. No no no. It should not be possible to be this unlucky.

“Ah, honored Azem.” Elidibus acknowledges you as well, the warmth and friendliness in his voice a pleasant death toll for your dreams of escape, “We were just speaking of you – might you assist us in reaching an accurate conclusion?”

You want to say no. You really do. But it would not be appropriate to answer without turning to them, and you know as soon as you see Elidibus’s hopeful, encouraging smile, your fate will be sealed.

“Yes, esteemed Azem, your colleague has quite the theory about your compatibility with your fellow coworkers,” You cannot possibly put to words how very much you would not like to put anything into words right now, “I shall set the question forth straightaway – have you any special fondness for the venerable Lahabrea? Or perhaps our honored Emet-Selch?”

As expected, when you turn, Elidibus’s face is filled with familiar kindness and excitement. He hangs upon your reply, eager to hear the answer, leaning in with interest – even as the Amaurotine beside him waits with crossed arms; both of them expectant of a favorable response.

What a boggle.


	7. You Pick

  
  
“You pick.” You hear Altima say, and you realize that you have never been more prepared to kill another human being in your life.

“We have been discussing where to go to dinner for three hours,” You say, “I have suggested twelve locations. Three in walking distance, another three nearby, several more to teleport to. Varied cuisines and menu selections. Every one of them, you have denied.”

“Yes,” She says, and oh, you love her, but this might break you, “That is why you should pick.”

“That,” It feels like you’re about to choke on your own breath, veins constricting, “Is what I have been trying to do for the past three hours, love.”

“Clearly, you are failing.”

“Feel free to pick up the reigns at any time!” You snap, throwing your head back with a hand against your forehead, sighing, eyes closed.

“I am. As I’ve told you, you are free to select a destination as soon as you like.” There is no mistaking the tease in her voice.

Slumping back in your chair, you groan. “Every destination I pick, you find fault with! Would it really be so hard for you to suggest one thing on your own?”

“Oh,” A coyness to her tone would have lightened your mood any other moment, but now you simply massage your temples in frustration, “But you are so very endearing, thus. So sweet and friendly, the ever-beloved and ever-loving Azem unleashing her annoyance on me.”

A snort. “Wringing this much annoyance out of me may just spoil our plans for the night.”

Hands meet your shoulders, but not before her breath meets your ears. “If it is so difficult,” Altima whispers softly, “We may just stay in.”

A smile twitches at your lips, despite yourself, and you feel her mouth turn up as she presses a kiss into your jaw, trailing them down your neck. “It was that hard to make a decision, was it?”

“You know I don’t prefer to take the lead,” Her words flutter at your neck, your collarbone, gentle like the wingbeats of a bird, “I am more surprised that you tolerated it for so long.”

“Well,” Sitting up, and spreading your legs, you pull her just a bit forward, guiding her to sit on your lap, licking your lips as you see her pale gold eyes gaze up at you in lurid beauty, matching locks falling over her skin like sunlight over a dark field, “How do you plan on making it up to me?”

Her tongue flits across your chest as her mouth lowers, tugging down at your robes. She gasps at the fingertips that dig into her skin, clawing, claiming, making note of where to lick over when you have her bare –

“Now for that – I’ve a few ideas.”


	8. Nonagenarian

It’s a fine day to be crafting, and Emet-Selch has come to critique your weaving skills.

“The cuff would really look _much_ better an ilm higher… perhaps two.”

“Whatever,” You bark at Emet-Selch in a fit of frustration, “It’s not like I _wanted_ fashion advice from a…” there’s an agonizing moment where you search for the right word; not too crass, but you want to be a bit spiteful and you _have_ to say something before that stupid smug smile gets any smugger, “Nonagenarian.”

Oh, hells.

“Nonagenarian,” You turn your head, futilely trying to return to your work, but he is closing in, now, “What a curious appellation! Tell me, my dear is that how old you _think_ I am? Even in the body of Solus zos Galvus, I had lived but to the ripe old age of eighty five – ”

“What?” He was close to ninety – no, he’d been close to _eighty-nine,_ that was right, and you move to glare at him, at least, “You were older than that. And it’s been how many years for you, here, since?”

You meet a satisfied smile. “So I was. Read up on me, did you?”

_Arrogant man._ Try as you may to continue your stitching, he remains annoyingly close at your side, and your response is thoroughly irked. “Read what books? On the First?”

“I am given to understand you may return whenever you please.”

“Maybe.”

He makes a show of rolling his eyes. “Please – have we not moved past this slippery mistrust? It is hurtful, you know.”

That draws a snort from you. “Have you considered that’s why I do it?”

You spin in your chair when you hear something fall to the ground – Emet-Selch has staggered as if beset by some great gale that buffets him back, clutching his chest like a man greatly wounded. It’s almost a surprise he hasn’t shot himself for added effect.

“You _wound_ me, hero – I grant you the wisdom and understanding of eons, and this is what you have to say in response.” How his brows rise up and together, his lips purse and tremble; he makes an affected sight, this Ascian, playing dramatics with his mortal enemy.

Somehow, you laugh. “All right, then. Was it an ilm, or two? I should expect one as old as you to get it right.”

You try to ignore how warm your chest feels when he smiles.


	9. Clamour

“This world is yours… as is the duty to save it.”

You turn – you had only barely heard it above the clamor, but heard it you had, in “Ardbert”’s unmistakable voice. There’s no warmth in it anymore, or perhaps that’s only your own imagining, knowing as you do about the reality of his situation.

Across from you he looks the same as he had before, standing there, a dead man preaching. Blue eyes bright with promise, an encouraging near-smile on his mouth that Ardbert never had; even in the time you’d known him, the man had never been so subtle in his expressions.

Ardbert was a man of great depth of compassion, which led him to react to the suffering and trials of those around him. He saw others struggling and gave them aid, which earned him friend after friend – not that it ensured his legacy, however much they dedicated their lives to their world – he saw others in pain and did whatever he could to help it, he saw others in danger and his kind heart had cried out for him to fight. He had wandered the First, alone and unseen, for nigh a century and what had hurt him the most of all was not to be able to reach out to people who needed help.

Even at your side, he’d offered what he could; the lost and suffering soul, and it had revitalized him, just that, to be able to talk to you, give you companionship and compassion in your worse moments. That had been the kind of man he was – to be of use – of _comfort_ – to others, had been his greatest solace. Had given him the hope he needed to rejoin with you.

The man who smiles – a touch too tightly, to faintly – across from you, preaches of self-sufficiency and encouragement. You want to think that Ardbert would have approved of this – of this _use_ of his body – even though there is clearly some manner of deception behind it.

You want to think no one will think ill of Ardbert after this. That he is not building them up only to let them down – gaining their trust, their admiration, only to disappoint them, or force you to some other ends

“Is aught amiss, my friend?” His voice is still not as warm as it should be and it rankles you. You miss the man he’s pretending to be. The way he is now only makes it rankle harder. “Please – rest assured; in this world, you are no longer needed.”

Something in you hurts at that, and you almost think you see a thing like malice in his eyes as you meet them, a bitterness stewed in frustration and helpless rage. Held tightly as if contained in that body of the man who gave you his soul and his strength, pulling taut against binds of blessed flesh and expectation, of duty and endurance. There’s no wanting left, only restlessness, the desire to press forward and complete the next task, to proceed in his quest without thought, the soulless, heartless pursuit of an ever-distant, abstract goal.

You think you can understand that, whoever this is – an Ascian, most likely, and though your memories may be old, you have a suspicion as to who it might be. After your encounter with Emet-Selch – what he’d said, what they were fighting for…

Whether or not he takes it, you give him a smile, small and sincere.

It’s hard to be a hero. No matter what it is you’re fighting for.


	10. Lush

The lining on his coat, you notice distantly as you shove your face into the plush finery of Emet-Selch’s Garlean robes, is remarkably thick, warm; it must be terrible in the heat (or it would be for you – who knows what magics the Ascian might possess to improve his experience of the mundanities of the flesh) but that does not stop him from taking you into his arms, not for a moment, _Dear hero, what have we here,_ a murmur a touch too soft to be mocking, a hold a pinch too tight to be distant, the tension in his body present but you could _feel_ in the way he held himself that it was not from awkwardness – rather, his muscles strained against themselves, against the urge you, too, felt – to crush him against your chest, bury yourself in his embrace as you cocoon him in yours, hold every part of him as close to every part of you as you can manage –

Just the thought of it has you shuddering, and mistaking it as he does (for what? Fear? Anticipation? _Pleasure?_ ), a gloved hand strokes its way down your back, softer than it should be, a movement not quite smooth enough to be practiced, to be an act; there’s no doubt in your mind after this:

Emet-Selch rather likes to hold you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This prompt didn’t exactly move me as much as I would have liked, so I gave myself a little challenge: to write the whole thing in one sentence. As any long-time readers will have noticed – I write very long sentences XD I don’t actually think it makes for good writing but!!! It was fun! And a bit of a challenge, so I’ll mark that down as a double victory.


	11. Avail

To avail the sun

Flames take on oceans of blood

Consigned to darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An entry can be,,, a Haiku


	12. Ultracrepidarian

Emet-Selch is perpetually surprised just to know how _many_ things there are for you to do.

It’s really quite astounding. The world was not satisfied with merely throwing you against its every challenge and enemy and demanding you risk life and limb for its paltry existence – no, they required more, for you to fulfill more roles, every role, to be everything they needed, at all times, whenever they needed it, an ultracrepidarian of the highest degree. 

For you to be a warrior of the highest degree, a warrior of darkness who reached into the blackest night and channeled the unbridled energy of creation into your own double; this was not enough. You needed also to be a true savage – swinging about an axe is if it were no lighter than a switch. A hero, pure and good and shining, sword and shield and steadfast defenses and holy magic – a rougish protector with a gunblade (he never _had_ worked one of those, it’s quite tempting to pull one out just to mock that gunbreaker companion of yours), or a benevolent and powerful healer, scholar – the list went on and on. To say nothing of the various disciplines of attacking and destruction you had brought yourself to master – black magic, summoning, a prodigy with lance and sword alike.

Emet-Selch is _perpetually_ surprised – confused – boggled, even, to see how much you will do for these people. How much you _can_ do, and choose to continue doing, despite the obvious unworthiness of those fortunate recipients of your good will, which would most _certainly_ be better spent elsewhere.

And perhaps – as he watches from the shadows, seeing you strike out with that enormous blade to lay low a sin eater or several – just _perhaps –_

You step over the bodies as they dissolve into light aether; aether that pales in comparison to your own radiance, powerfully contained. Without his thinking of it, his hand darts up to his collar, loosening it despite how it had never truly been tight.


	13. Tooth and Nail

“Tooth and nail do you fight,” Igeyorhm whispers to your ear, “Day in and day out. Tirelessly, for certain,” There, you catch a smile in her voice that she does not deign to hide, but the press of fingertips covered in soft leather, with bare claws teasing over your cheek as she strokes your face, stills any rebuttal, “But even a Warrior of Light may rest once in a while, no?”

Maybe that’s why you do it. Why you let her draw you into her lap and stroke your head, stroke your hair. Brush over it in smooth movements that trail like water over your shoulders, your back, your sides. Cool and blessed relief everywhere she touches.

Why you melt like ice in your own heat when she comes to you, seeks you out and reaches with a knowing curve to her lips and hands outstretched, claws so _close_ and so tactile, like gentle knifepoints that draw carefully over supple, tender flesh.

Igeyorhm does not touch you like an unyielding crystal. She does not clutch you like an idolized savoir. And she does not make love to you as one does to a powerful warrior – Igeyorhm takes as she pleases, touches how she pleases, and as she does pleases you greatly.

A pleasure delicate and ephemeral, disappearing as soon as it makes itself known. The kiss of cold that you _feel_ for but a moment before your indulgence may settle and weigh upon you. It’s only the barest sort of afterglow that stays, a peace that trickles through wherever you make contact and paints lines of calm and comfort that still you to your core.

You should fight her. You should be fighting tooth and nail against this Ascian, this enemy of all creation who seeks to cause naught but chaos and destruction in the world you seek to protect.

Instead, you lie back. Feel the metal of her robes press into you as her arms snake forward to wrap about her prize, a slender chin working its way to rest where your neck meets shoulder, cheek to your pulse, tongue flicking out to meet a jaw that tickles with the spear of her mask. Thumbs curving beneath your breasts, claws caressing bare, prickling skin.

Even a Warrior of Light need not _always_ fight tooth and nail, surely...


	14. You Pick II

“And he _said,_ ” Mitron growls in a voice that grates even harder against your ear than usual, “ _You pick._ ”

You nod, sagely, “Yes, I’ve been in that sorry spot before. It can go on for hours.”

“Days!”

Setting the drink down on the table, you cross your legs and sigh, leaning back. “Altima likes to make a game of it, I think. But I do suspect she truly is that indecisive. I enjoy all the time I spend with her, of course, but last time we didn’t even go out at all…”

A throaty huff reaffirms you, “Loghrif is _transcendent_ in many ways. Fool would I be to lodge complaint, but…”

“It would be nicer to simply _go out_ and have a pleasant night,” You finish for him, watching him nod in emphatic relief, “It’s _wonderful,_ certainly, Altima is an eager and delightful partner but it would kill neither of us to go to some nice outing before getting into our bedroom affairs. And I would not have us go only to places _I_ can think of going to.”

Mitron smacks his own knee in a gesticulation you can almost _feel,_ despite being across from him, “Just how much stamina do they think we have? One might grow tired of lovemaking, doing it so constantly!”

“Have you tried bringing new things into it?” You ask, but no – the pervasion of sexual undertones itself is what he meant to protest. “The pollen?”

“Hng.” Mitron’s vocalizations become rougher as the topic expands, “Loghrif avidly supports and recommends its use. While I cannot say I mind,” You have to hold back a smarmy little smile at the way his arms shift, shoulders prickling – without that mask you daresay you’d spy a blush – as he speaks, “His source – the _looks_ I receive from Halmarult during meetings, after…”

Faking a cough into your hands – Mitron wordlessly passes you a water, the sweet and grumpy man, which you drink with a slight amount of guilt, but at least you hadn’t chuckled outright – you hum contemplatively. “Perhaps make a game of abstinence? I know as well that some like to go out in public making certain _passes._ ”

“Should you so much as breathe a word of such ideas in his earshot I shall personally censure you again,” He says gravely, without so much as a moment of hesitation.

You laugh, “I cannot speak for any others, but consider my own lips sealed.”

Mitron looks at you. You look back at him.

He groans, and you laugh again.


	15. Part

Even now, you can see it.

When you can’t see his eyes, not even his face – features smoothed and obscured by the little shortcuts Emet-Selch took in creating this magnificent city – you can still see it in _him,_ in how he holds his shoulders (not so slumped as Emet-Selch, but with a weight on them, no less, arms set in an unease due more to sorrow than discomfort), conducts himself, in his little echoing chimes that just barely falter towards the end, a quaver barely noticeable to one not caught in rapt attention.

Hythlodaeus knows he must – knows he _will_ – part with you, and does not want to.

You think, drifting off in warmth, in the comfort of soft, ethereal robes, a solid and delicate warmth that emanates unnaturally evenly from a body made purely of aether – you think, in the haze of comfort as large, so large arms wrap themselves around you, a touch too tight to be _secure_ –

You don’t want to part, either.


	16. Ache

“It must ache,” You hear behind you – it’s a tone you’d missed, a cadence you wouldn’t mistake for anything in the world, but it’s so sudden, so unexpected it makes you jump nonetheless.

“Your soul, I should clarify.” From behind you, seemingly having materialized out of thin air, stands another of the shades of Amaruot, the dark-robed, faintly glowing and not-quite-all-there figment of a dream, Hythlodaeus.

You’re not sure what to say. What _does_ one say to accusations of soul-aching? What does it feel like, for a soul to ache? He can see yours, you’re sure – he saw you and Ardbert, and he must be able to tell what happened. You wonder if you could have done it, without his advice. If Ardbert knew what to do, because of what he’d said.

Maybe it didn’t matter either way. Maybe it never did.

“Like growing pains, but in reverse.” He says, gently, but he’s closer now and he’s so _large,_ so much bigger – you’re not used to voices coming from so high up, you jerk in surprise every time. Hythlodaeus must notice, because he kneels beside you, sitting back on his ankles, letting his robe pool beneath him, careless and carefree. “The pieces may fit, but with edges worn with unfamiliar memories, the mind struggles to call aught to the fore.”

What he speaks of is unclear, uncertain; you don’t remember any of Ardbert’s memories, but the Echo…

“How do you know?” You ask.

Hythlodaeus reaches out one massive hand, fingers long and slender like the rest of him, the dark white glow of his body further outlining his appearance. It hovers by you for a moment – his palm nears your torso in size, his fingers almost as long as your arm – but stays there, in the air, until you glance at it, then back at him, and reach out to touch his hand with yours.

It's the permission he’d been waiting for, it seems; he closes in, curling, and suddenly he has you in his hand, his little finger hooked beneath your thighs while his other fingers rested against your back, thumb keeping you in place as he slid you securely against his palm, pulling you forwards, into himself. Setting you on his lap.

Even as you’d tensed during the movement his motions soothe you – smooth and unhurried, not quite _delicate_ but careful, his hand keeps against you, making small, soft strokes while he speaks. “I can see it. There were cracks and seams running all along it before – with your companion’s strength added to yours, the wounds are healed, but they are fresh and new,

“It didn’t change me,” You blurt out, still leaning into his touch. “I didn’t turn into – I’m still myself.”

“Everything will change you,” Hythlodaeus’s words are perhaps the gentlest part of all of him, the great Amaurotine who knelt and reached out to hold you to him, “Everything leaves its marks. In soul, in body. In memory. Emet-Selch is most fortunate for it, don’t you think?”

Something about that unsettles you – you shift, tug yourself away, slipping off his lap without resistance.

When you look up he is gone.

(This memory, too, changes you.)


	17. Lucubration

“Lahabrea,” You call across the room, to the distinctly-not-study that was the small table you allowed him to keep in your shared bedchambers, “We’re aught to do in the morning. Are you ready to retire for the night?”

He’s not, as you well know, but he’d brushed off your reminder. And your second reminder. And your third – up until that one, it was as per usual, your love who buried himself in books and matrices, in designs and outlines and abstracts and prototypes. Oft you will get a hum or one-word acknowledgement, only for him to move himself shortly thereafter, presumably after having finished his thought or paragraph. It’s endearing of him – you had _always_ admired his passion – but he is even more endearing when he sleeps.

There are fewer things the man needs more desperately; fulfilled in companionship, in learning and in his professional pursuits, so widely admired and respected. He is a great man, one well worth loving, and perhaps this is just a part of his greatness – but you will never grow tired of trying to stamp it out.

Lahabrea doesn’t _need_ more greatness. He needs more rest. He needs to learn to enjoy it. Even now, if he were to drop whatever he was so engrossed with to accede your request – and he has, on some occasions before – he would bring the full of his fervor to the bed. Far be it from you to complain about such a devoted and diligent partner, but…

“Lahabrea,” You call again, as he doesn’t respond; fruitlessly, you hope you will not have to leave the comfort of your blanket to tug him away, “It’s late. Come rest with me.”

Further silence confirms the worst of fears; he has not heard you. Accepting your sentence, you rise and walk over; for this grievance, only his absolute surrender will suffice. “Lahabrea?”

You feel some measure of remorse at how his shoulders prickle at the sound, but it’s gone when the open air makes you shiver again. You could be in bed, now. With him next to you, instead of over here. You could be in bed _with him_ but instead you are dragging him there. Impossible man.

“Why do you insist on addressing me by title?” He turns to you, face unmasked, lips slightly pursed in frustration – brows drawn together as evidence of his consternation; he must have been deep in study before you approached.

Bright eyes meet yours, just as intense and piercing as ever, questioning, demanding, even now – in his own home. They’re considerably less intimidating with the shadows beneath them.

“Perhaps because that’s the post you’ll need to fill tomorrow, on some few handfuls of sleep?” You do not leave him room to rebut – a novice mistake, when conversing with Lahabrea – and continue, “I am sure your lucubrations will remain here on the morn. Come to bed now. You’ve need of rest.”

Lahabrea is about to say something foolish, like _I do not,_ but you tug his chair out for him, hands warm on his shoulders, tugging, coaxing him away.

To you and you alone – your warmth and gentle touch, your affectionate annoyance and steadfast insistence – he yields.


	18. Fade

“You’ve no reason to be so upset,” The Chief of the Bureau of the Architect says, despite knowing excruciatingly well the reason Hades has to be _so upset,_ “The ink will fade.”

“And mayhap I would be satisfied with the ink _fading,_ ” The newly-appointed Emet-Selch hisses, “If it were not _on my face!”_

“Right underneath your mask! It aligns perfectly, you see,” Hythlodaeus gestures as if in triumph, “As if the one who did it was especially thinking of you.”

“Perhaps they ought to think less of me, then,” He regrets the words on several different levels as soon as he says them; an accomplishment worthy of his days in the debate hall, “I daresay my dignity cannot handle them thinking of me any _more._ ”

The Chief’s laughter, light and bubbling, fills the room, “Then perhaps you ought to have left your dignity at the door – they’re like to think of you _far_ more often, what with your new position.”

“Is it too late to turn it down?”

“Certainly not, but you _will_ still have ‘Emet-Sulk’ stuck on your face for a while.”


	19. Panglossian

So you intend to confront her alone, in the depths of the tempest, where none may find you – see you, as you slowly succumb, turn into a greater beast than any of the monsters you’ve so far slain. With those dull crystals of light you hold so close and dear to yourself, how you don’t hesitate, don’t even say goodbye, she can tell you’re not expecting this to be your final act as this world’s hero. She watches you make your way to her home with surprisingly little difficulty, face fierce with pain – and determination – and then awe as your eyes meet the first of the city lights.

How positively _Panglossian._ What _do_ you expect will come of this, Emet-Selch wonders – but perhaps she wonders for naught. After all, you had been invited.

She would be a poor host if she left you at the entrance all by your lonesome. Collapsed in the elevator, choking down the Light, now that the Oracle is not here to hold it at bay. It would have done little, anyways.

Down she goes to meet you, her bright little light under the sea. How long will you last?

A titillating question. Your broken, shattered soul crawling to her for comfort – what was an Angel of Truth to do, but provide it?


	20. Where the heart is

You hadn’t expected to walk through the streets of this city with a new memory of challenge and heartache to append to it.

If home is where the heart is –

_Elidibus had stood here, summoned former friends – foes – all sorts of people who had been a part of your journey, as if you needed some personal connection to feel remorse for killing, throwing one enemy after another at you as if asking, waiting, **pleading** for some kind of reaction, you knew not what. _

And you should strike at the heart of the matter –

_Elidibus had passed on, far, far from here, where he chose to make his final stand. On his knees before you, clutching those crystals, crying. Dissipating into aether to be sealed in the tower._

You stop – your feet had taken you to the Capitol building, bereft of any presence as the shades had drawn away, or faded from existence as time passed and their aether grew dim.

He’d seemed so _confident,_ so very sure of himself, back then. You’re not sure he should have been. Even without the Exarch’s assistance, you would have defeated him, and found some means of doing him in another time. It was only the crystal which had truly made a difference – but even _that,_ you doubt; as well-intentioned as it may have been, it was not as if you would have _definitely_ been trapped there forever. Otherwise he would have done so much sooner…

_“Yes… I would become Him. I would save everyone.”_

The doors to the Capitol building look so very large. Even to an Amaurotine, they must have been rather imposing.

_“Divided – over the fate of the star. A rare occurrence, always fleeting. But not this time.”_

He had seemed so very small in that moment, cradling those crystals in his hands, weeping over his duty. His failure.

_“Not this time…”_

In another time, another world, you’d been the same. A failure. Dead, without a fight. The poison had taken you and there had been _nothing_ you could do about it, you couldn’t fight it, couldn’t stop it, you just died, unceremoniously, at the start of the Eighth Umbral Era.

But it hadn’t come to pass.

_“At duty’s end, we will meet again. We will. We will.”_

Because _you_ hadn’t been alone.

Because the whole world rose up in arms together, gathered all the power and knowledge they had left, that ruined world that you’d failed to save, and saved you back.

_“The rains have ceased, and we are blessed with another beautiful day. But you are not here to see it.”_

You hadn’t been alone. You aren’t alone.

But Elidibus was. Until the very end.

Home is where the heart is – and Amaurot, now, feels so very empty.


	21. You Pick III

“Perhaps we would be better served if you were to pick…” The words themselves almost make you groan.

“Elidibus,” Internally, you channel all your remaining patience into the task of speaking without yelling, “I told you I wanted to go somewhere you personally enjoyed. Please, simply name a place. A park or setting, some eatery or perhaps simply a scenic spot you enjoy…?”

“Ah, I…” As fine a diplomat as he is, Elidibus fails here and now to occlude his natural response, red creeping up – or rather, down his cheeks, where his mask did not reach.

“You?”

“I truly do not mind – I am pleased just to spend time with you, you know – ”

“And I am pleased, pleasing you; it would please me most to know we’ve done at least _one_ thing centered about your tastes and not mine. One thing _for you._ ” You watch his tongue dart between his lips to wet them, tiny and pink and well-matched to his face.

Could he handle a kiss, with this much hand-wringing and coyness? Perhaps it would be better for him to consider this training for future diplomatic exchanges. Amaurotines were largely professional and academic, and they – well, to be honest, you’re not quite sure how anyone got into a relationship, with how your colleagues tended to act, except perhaps Nabriales.

“The matter is…” Elidibus visibly turns his head, a helplessly endearing gesture from a normally enthusiastic and attentive partner, “Much of my time is spent in the most storied Hall of the Unending Journey…”

Now it is _your_ cheeks that flush – and you see why he had been reluctant to say so to your face, so hard-pressed to name something when he frequented most the building dedicated to _your own seat._

“Oh – we can, of course we can – but would I be…” Would it be arrogant of you to explore their catalgoues yourself, being Azem now – of course it would be perfectly appropriate to investigate the doings of your predecessor but – the look on Elidibus’s face, you dare say – ahh….

“Of course!” With a renewed energy, Elidibus grasps your hands in his, heedless of his cation from just a few moments ago. “Let us away – if you would, of course. I would be most pleased to spend the day there, with you!”

_Ah,_ you think at the feeling of his hand, tugging you along, his back turned to you despite the warmth in his grasp.

You suppose this is what falling in love might feel like.


	22. Foibles

Nabriales is a man with many foibles – so many more than he would like to admit – but he is not, at least, an inconsiderate lover.

Whether this is his own nature, though, or because he prefers to be bound and choked while you put him on collar and leash and yank him between your legs, you’re not entirely certain. He always kneels most enthusiastically – hands you the lead already attached to the ring on his neck with clear impatience, a fire in his eyes and a heat in his motions.

You grow to need the mask – on him, because with his lips on your sex it’s easier to pretend he’s not _laughing_ at you, not grinning, taking his wicked delight from the noises he prizes from you. The brush of his hair on the inside of your thighs always runs so pleasantly along your skin as he dives deeper, _ravenous,_ bobbing his head and tilting his chin for as long as you allow him the privilege of that movement.

It’s a privilege you often make him do without, sitting down and throwing your legs over his shoulders while he leans in to taste of you; he first taught you to pull back on the leash to press the collar into his throat by leaning further in, raising his bound hands behind his back as if in askance.

He likes to have to _fight_ to press forward, to choke himself in his urgency to please – eager does not even begin to cover it. When Nabriales irritates you, you have him hold the leash _himself,_ force him to be the master of his own denial, and you know he will pull back on it the entire time, stubborn and prideful and viciously satisfied with what he can do.

The truest punishment is when you rip him away, yank the chain harder than he can resist, let him gasp and reach and lean for your sex like a starved dog slavering for scraps.

You’d called him that, once. It only made him harder. Nabriales had laughed in your face – _“Scraps indeed” ­_ – and chuckled all the while as you slipped on the cockring, tightened it in fury while he howled as a child in a classroom over some stupid joke too _juvenile_ for anyone else to understand.

You still remember how he’d looked, gazing up at you, cheeks flushed, smug smile wide and edged with fangs, tight pants he didn’t bother to conceal rushing through his nose, lips you’d bitten into fullness, redness, while his cock purpled and you made a throne of his _stupid_ Majestic _face._

The laughter continued; you felt it in his tongue against you, his lips pursing and curling – “Only a veteran whore would know this so well,” he’d asked you for payment after that session and you’d shoved perhaps fifteen gil up his ass before tiring of his cackles – and _pleasing_ you to the point of climax, so many times over, withdrawing at the right moment, lapping at the waves of orgasm just when the heat was right, completely heedless of his own throbbing erection.

Sometimes you wonder, awkwardly, if you should offer to please him – with his insistent impertinence, how he _loves_ and _longs_ to be strung and stung and stretched, slapped and tied and tangled and suffocated, Nabriales does everything he can to stop you from showing him the slightest kindness, perpetually pursuing punishment that he _knows_ you’re predisposed to give, it’s like he _wants_ to be hurt, to see you hurt him, to watch you mercilessly lord his desire over him, helplessly giving him everything he wants in your steadfast denial –

And when you do offer, when you do try, the look he gives you – shock? disgust? like he’s brought you breakfast in bed (and he _has,_ on one occasion, but he saw the look on your face and never did again) and you’ve spat in it – makes you just want to crush him again and he loves it (or seems to).


	23. Argy-bargy

“Wot’s all this argy-bargy?” Your guildmaster’s voice rings through the inn; not an unfamiliar sound at all, but your shoulders prickle, you jerk yourself off your chair to dive out from the argument – but Brithael has long since noticed. “My favorite apprentice – gettin’ inna fights?”

The man beside you is still shouting in your ear about what a tall tale you’ve told (you HADN’T – it wasn’t your fault that your adventures as Warrior of Light – Darkness – didn’t make for believable stories), you’re a drunk (not always!) and a rambler (he’d ASKED, he shouldn’t have asked you if he wasn’t going to believe you!) and for someone to drag you out of here before you started spewing any more lies (they were NOT lies).

A warm shoulder presses into your underarm as Brithael swings your arm over him, holding your side to support you. You were absolutely definitely not _that_ drunk, but you still stumble – _allow him to help you_ back into your room, the secure press of his hold steadying you as you walk.

“’m not an apprentice anymore,” You mumble; Brithael, not entirely sober himself, staggers as he gets you to your bed, hoisting you with a well-muscled arm wrapped securely into the backs of your knees.

“Bleedin’ elezen,” You think you hear, and then up – you’re up, up, and you swing through the air for just a heartbeat before you land on your mattress, soft and downy; your personal, reserved room.

Rough-hewn but warm hands move you about, settle you on your side. “Are ye all right, lass? Aught ye need before I’m off – a glass o’ water, pail if ye get sick, washcloth…?”

“Are you gonna leave, guildmaster?” You murmur, fumbling your arms to reach out for him; sleepily, you try to grasp at his apron, only for a gentle, calloused grip to tuck you back in. “Won’t you stay with me?”

“And what’ll I do here, ey? Sing ye a lullaby? I’m sure ye’d have a better time sleepin’ it off without my drunk arse ambling about.”

“Ah,” You’re not disappointed, but you still fidget beneath your blankets, loosely and lazily as your eyes become harder and harder go close. “You wanna go back out to drink?”

“Someone oughtta tell those sods off. Calling ye a liar like that. Yer the best blacksmith from here to Orthard, I ain’t ever met a soul truer.”

Had your cheeks always been this warm? Flushed from the alcohol, surely. “I thought – I thought I was your favorite apprentice?”

“Aye, yer that too. Favorite apprentice I’ve ever ‘ad. Never met one I liked better.”

“You like me?”

“Aye, I like ye loads. Get yer rest, lass,” He closes in, heat radiating off him – or perhaps off of you – as he moves to cover you better with the blanket, “Gods know ye deserve it, after all ye’ve been through. Another world – ain’t no end to it...”

It’s hard to see the expression on his face, bowed as it is, but you feel a hand in your hair, soft and smoothing.

“I’m – I’m okay now. I’ll be okay,” You’re very used to reassuring others, but it seems to come hard to you know – perhaps the drink. Perhaps the petting. Perhaps the low tone he uses, your guildmaster who had always praised and encouraged you so genuinely – he didn’t know what lying even meant, but had sincerely lauded even your worst efforts with kindness and affirmation. You want him to feel better. You want him not to worry so. “I’m used to it.”

The hand stills in your hair. “I know, lass.”

“Yeah,” You say, sniffing, settling under the blanket. “I’ll be all right. Don’t worry about me.”

A sigh. “I hear ye. Go on, go to sleep.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll… be okay.” Things fade, further – your eyes are so very heavy. But you want him to know… “I’ll be all right. You don’t… have to worry.”

“Sleep well, lass.”


	24. Shuffle

He comes as soon as the knowledge reaches his ears – hurries over to the drab halls of the Eorzean _Adventurer’s Guild_ , in the city you’d been spotted in. There is an inn there, as well, he understands – one in which you make a permanent residence.

_Oh,_ it is a paltry thing. Already his mind swirls and churns with what he might offer you – how much _better_ you could do, truly – but if you were one to be moved by such things, you would have been already. And still; this inn may be _homely,_ perhaps, but ‘tis far less than the savior of the realm should be afforded. Your gear is clearly fine but well beyond what any of them could have outfitted you with; the steward greets you as any other guest, as a _regular_ – had they not even furnished you with a home of your own?

Every pitiful soul in this building owes you its continued existence and _this_ is their meager offering. Perhaps they truly do know how little their lives are worth, but fools they are to not know the value of _your_ time _._

Fandaniel is no such fool. He will make use of every second of yours he can acquire.

But he must pay attention – as soon as he sees you, he closes in; it wouldn’t do to have you lost in the shuffle, after all. With his vessel carefully tucked away back in Garlemald, it’s child’s play to pursue you to your own room, the only gaze worth avoiding quite duly focused on tugging open the door and stumbling into safety – privacy.

It is too early to smile – he does so, regardless. With neither mask nor robe he approaches you (it would do no good to be lumped in with that worthless lot, you _had_ killed them, after all), and your hand goes to your weapon – not holding it out just yet – as alertness covers your haggard features.

Poor, overworked, mistreated Warrior of Light. They should be kneeling at your feet, waiting on your every need, doting and massaging and fetching for you your every pleasure; really, this is no life for one such as you to be living. And if it is, _well,_ he has a much better deal to offer…

“Greetings, Warrior of Light!” He exclaims, perhaps with too much bombast, but _ah,_ you’re such a delightful change from Zenos, jumping up and on your guard at once instead of lazily eyeing him like a cat watching a bird it couldn’t be bothered to catch and eat, “I do believe it is time I made your acquaintance…”


	25. Beam

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short continuation of the previous prompt, "Foibles"

It goes on like that for some time – day in, day out. Nabriales will visit you in some corner of your evening – always in the evening – and press you, cut close all distance and thrust a collar or chain or whip to your hands and beam as if you had already agreed to use it on him.

That you instantly get the urge to do so feels like a defeat. You try to rationalize it, as he squirms and arches beneath you, a grown man panting and pressing his chest into the riding crop you bring down on a nipple, moaning after every strike. If he wants this, it makes no difference – he’s still at your mercy, beneath you, flesh and skin bared for your judgement, held in place however you please, all his efforts directed to your pleasure, this self-important immortal Ascian hanging on your every word, at your command –

And still you feel like you’re losing.


	26. Wish

Hythlodaeus isn’t entire sure why he was created. Emet-Selch re-created him, this he knows; even the fact that this is a re-creation, that the Final Days are long over and gone – the surrounding shades do not, however, and he can only hope they lack his self-awareness – and he also knows, quite vaguely, that the world is _wrong_ now… _broken…_ at least from Emet-Selch’s perspective.

What Hades thinks, he has no idea. It makes him happy, though, to see the trees in the courtyard that Hades had favored, dark-colored with bright blue trimmings.

In the true Amaurot, his creation had been declined in favor of warmer-colored specimens – ones that gave off a pleasant, familiar scent. Hades must not have paid attention out of spite, because Hythlodaeus doesn’t remember anything more of them.

He doesn’t remember many things; surely, Emet-Selch _did,_ but a fleeting instant of creation was not enough for all that knowledge to be passed to him.

Hythlodaeus is unsure of why he created – and why this Amaurot under the sea was created. What he _does_ have of Emet-Selch’s memories indicates that he means to be rid of this entire world, soon. Hythlodaeus finds this rather sad. Looking up at an unearthly, aethereal light above, creatures of the ocean that Mitron would have adored floating and flitting above the city ruins – he finds himself rather sad that it all is meant to disappear.

And then he sees you – and everything is clear.

If he has one wish, Hythlodaeus thinks, shade that he is – but an echo of a true memory, faded and ephemeral, even more fleeting in his existence than you –

He thinks he would like for you to survive, this time.


	27. When Pigs Fly

“I see,” Emet-Selch tells you in a casual tone that annoys to a frankly impressive degree, “And what did you say in response?”

“When pigs fly,” You turn and begin walking towards the Pendants; after his prying, you deserved the privacy.

Privacy would have to wait, however – footsteps sound beside you. You suppose you should feel honored the Ascian deigned to follow you in so mundane a fashion instead of just teleporting in, unannounced. Likely intruding on you when you were just about to sleep, or perhaps fresh from the bath.

“Oh? And here I was thinking he had been your type. What _intriguing_ preferences you have, hero; I would have pegged you for wanting someone just as strong and _virile_ as yourself.”

You spin, on your heel, and let yourself lean forwards to come face to face with him, only ilms away – bright eyes slightly wide as you press forward into his personal space.

“The pegging, I assure you, would go much the opposite way,” You say, directly to his face, watching him blink and narrow his eyes even as he runs his tongue quick between his lips, “And your presumption is _wrong._ I like them…”

On a whim, you step further forward, nearly brushing his chest with yours, eyes unflinching, staring him down. His mouth parts just barely, and you can feel the breath he holds – quietly – as he awaits your next words.

Tilting your head to the side as you quite pointedly run your eyes over his face, his neck, the bits of his collar you can glance at from your position. The corner of your lip lifts, just a bit.

“…Scrawny. A bit gaunter, hollow cheeks and angled bones, all sharp edges and frail countenance.” And you like how his eyes dilate, too, at your suggestion, the shadows in his sockets not quite so sickly as they look deep, tired.

To your tastes, indeed. “I like them when they look like a good fucking would send them straight on their ass,” You say, and, quick as you like, flick a hand up to his forehead, tapping on his third eye.

He doesn’t fall flat on his ass, the impetuous man, but you see him wince, stagger in shock, arms shooting out to steady him, and the look he gives you after warms your chest as well as other areas. 


	28. You Pick IV

“It’s just annoying,” You speak up to Hythlodaeus from your place; head settled in his lap while he plays aimlessly with your hair, twining a lock around his fingers, pouring through it, against it, “Every time I ask him he just goes, _Oh, you pick, I care not as long as we go together._ I appreciate the sentiment but I’m running out of things to do! And besides, why should _I_ always have to be the one to figure these things out?”

Hythlodaeus hums down at you, his other hand reaching down to cup your cheek. It’s soft, uncalloused; you lean into the feeling even as his thumb strokes soft over your jaw.

“For Hades, it _is_ quite a romantic sentiment. He’s come a long way.”

“He could come a little _further._ ” You grouse, “ _I’ve_ always put effort into making sure we can enjoy our time together. I know he’s not the social type but he could at least _try_ a bit. It’s as if I’m perpetually searching for things for us to do together while he sits back and waits for me to present an activity for his approval. I’m grateful that he’s willing to go out with me, but we don’t always _have to,_ and it would be much easier if he brought some idea to me that _he_ personally liked.”

“Perhaps he’s simply not the creative type.”

You look up at Hythlodaeus with an arched brow. “Is he? How many creations have you registered for him, Hyth?”

“Perhaps a few dozen this year?”

With a groan, you let one of your hands fall solidly against his chest, dragging along the softness of his robes – you can _feel_ his chuckle as well as hear it, the loveliest sound that also drove you to pieces in a hundred different ways a day.

“That’s a few dozen more than I – probably not that many fewer than Lahabrea, though his projects are considerably more grandiose.”

“Come now,” Hyth uses a tone you know well, one that settles you instinctively at its low, tender chiding, “You’re away so often it’s impressive you submit any concepts at all.”

“It hardly helps that only one or two of them reach fruition. That he’d completed so many, enough to be accepted at the Bureau…”

A hand draws through the strands of your hair, to the end, brushing it out before cupping your other cheek as he leans down to face you, lips in a careful frown of concern even as he says, “You ought to ask him to exercise it, then. He’s not the sort who will realize this until it’s pointed out to him.”

A sigh. “I know, I know…”

There’s no reason for it to be so, but your heart lifts, as if a weight has been removed, at the sight of his smile. You would almost feel like a child being scolded, with Hyth being a parent having successfully pried and admission of understanding from you, but his laughter turns you far too much to goo.


	29. Irenic

You look up at the Ladder. Up this and then up further – a flying mountain, in fact – is the final Lightwarden. All the others have been vanquished – or, as the queasy, creaking feeling in your chest suggests, _absorbed._ This one will make the last. Just this last one – if you could _just_ get this last one –

Then what, exactly? You stare upwards, at the mountain, for lack of anywhere better to look.

Emet-Selch is still following. Still _watching._ Asking after the Exarch. Giving you those smiles, always telling you, _put the Lightwardens to the sword,_ defeat them all, and _then_ he’ll talk – whatever irenic intentions he had, they were dependent on your personal strength.

What could he possibly be expecting? What could he _want?_ He hasn’t assassinated or possessed anyone – if he even could, the Scions did not truly have bodies, here – but neither has he made any actual compelling case for his cause. _“I do not consider you to be truly alive…”_ he said to your faces – and then told you that he had only the highest of expectations for _you._

What made you so different? What would it _matter_ if you could defeat the Lightwardens? What would he _do?_

Looking up at the Ladder, you consider… one way or another, you’re bound to find out.


	30. Paternal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by a certain bit from celestial_txt's works~ You'll know it when you see it XD

“Oh, come now my dear. My sweet. My sugar muffin, my darling, my nightlight – ”

“Nightlight?”

“My Warrior of Light – and Darkness, as of late. An inspired take, I must say.”

“You thought of that yourself.”

“My delicate little starling, I _blush._ ”

“Call me that again and I’m kicking you out.”

“Such acidity! Almost enough to make me regret my open-hearted and genuine display of affection…”

“I could only hope to be so lucky…”

“Hmh. Then what would you have me call you, hm? Savoir of the Realm? Hero and Rescuer to all those in need? Inflamer of the locals?”

“Think more… paternal.”

“Paternal.”

“Yes, paternal.”

“…Lord Savior of the savages?”

“More familiar.”

“I daresay I do not like where this is going, sugar plum.”

“I see you’ve got it, then.”

“My darling, you should have _expected_ that I would only ever dare say such a humiliating thing after a long and thorough session of… persuasion.”

Emet-Selch can _hear_ you smile, and it terrifies and excites him.

“Bet I can have you calling me _Daddy_ after two minutes.”

“By all means – please begin.”


	31. Splinter

He meets you there, in that place Emet-Selch had created. Test you. You do not falter, as you had never faltered.

Perhaps you and he are alike in that way. You fight those who bear the faces of your friends without hesitation. You look him in the eyes, ready to do battle. Of course you must – your friend. In Anyder, she was… You raise your weapon, continue on. You fight for her. For the others. For this world – to thwart him.

You cut down the specters of your friends and keep going. Their feigned deaths do nothing to stop you.

The façade splinters. Cracks.

_Had you not been there, then, perhaps Lahabrea…_

Lahabrea – Lahabrea. Emet-Selch had had words about this – about him. He was… Lahabrea, he… flame… ash… he was doing… inevitable, it was –

The thoughts are pointless. He will ask Emet-Selch in person. When his duty was over, when the deed was done, the world made whole and anew and all things lost found once again, he would ask him. He could ask Lahabrea, too. All of them would be there. They would… they would all…

Elidibus is certain he will know. He knows all he needs to know. For now, he keeps his duty.

He will succeed. He will... he must.


End file.
